Nothing can render the formless dynamism of inner experience, its turbulence, stress, wild and myopic objectifications, and reactive subjections. Thought would be caught up in it like a mote in a storm, but that it all takes place within thought - as thought, an inside with no outside, wrestles to contain itself. The distance between body and eye, as between any two of what we call senses, would seem to be unbridgeable since the respective terms into which experience is divided are untranslatable, and yet this is what excites; the eye mapping the unceasing blossoming of body, its presences and absences, its infoldings and unfoldings, the body feeding on the light the eyes digest. He could not help loving the world according to the eyes, the light-filled spaces, the spread of separation, the nakedness of exposure, until feeling itself became geometric and origin and source were confused.